Colony 4: River
by DarkBeta
Summary: Suppose they all just . . . disappeared.
1. It Will Happen on a Holiday

Colony 4: River, Chapter I, by DarkBeta

(UNCLE is not mine. Nevertheless i'm taking it out to play . . . a long, long way from home.)

**[Upstate New York, Memorial Day, 1967]**

"It's not fair! Absolutely everybody else in town is going to be at the picnic grounds this year. I know Paul Tennings is there, 'cuz I asked his sister! Just because Grampa has this bee in his bonnet about a get-together that's just for family, we're stuck in the middle of the deep, dark wilderness! Midge, I'm so-o-o sorry you got dragged out here just 'cuz you're my friend!"

Dramatically Libby threw herself back across the khaki wool blanket. She glared at the blue sky and overhanging green branches as if they were the ones conspiring against her.

"It's not like he cares about family anyhow. He just works all the time. I don't think I've met him more than three times. Gammer was on her own a lot, until Aunt Jane moved back in. So I don't think he's got any right to say what we do."

Midge hugged her knees and blinked behind her glasses.

"He's got a really cool car. And a chauffeur. What does he do? Is he, like, rich or something? If he keels over, are you going to be a heiress and have parties in the society pages and stuff?"

Libby snorted. She sat up again.

"Yeah, right! He's something boring in the city, like insurance. He's just trying to look important."

The pale-haired chauffeur was concentrating on his book. He had a pen out for notes, but his lips moved. He was cute, but not very smart.

A dark green convertible came up the road, and slid in behind the silver limousine, her Dad's station wagon, and the yellow Beetle Aunt Jane drove. Three smartly-suited women got out, and the driver waved to Grampa. He stood up out of the folding chair. In the chair beside him Gammer didn't get up, but she looked unhappy. Grampa's bulldog barked. Gammer put a hand on his head.

Libby's two cousins had been playing near their feet. Robin picked up Ginny and backed away when Grampa stood up. Grampa looked around. He wanted somebody to keep an eye on the little kids. Libby knew she should volunteer. She held her breath, hoping he wouldn't look over and see her and Midge in the shade.

This was all Grampa's fault. Now he was going to run off like usual to some silly emergency at the office. Let Gammer do it, the way she put up with all Grampa's absences. Or make Aunt Jane take care of her own kids for a while, instead of sniffling into a handkerchief and making Gammer and Mum and Aunt Ruth dither around her.

"Mr. Solo!"

The black-haired man who'd come out from the city with Grampa was talking to Aunt Ruth and her date. Flirting with Aunt Ruth, really, and avoiding Mr. Gilbert's attempts to stand in between them. He said something that made them all laugh, and ambled over

He hadn't expected to get baby-sitting duty. He argued. Grampa Waverly pointed firmly downslope. Libby's cousin Robin jumped up and down. Little Ginny leaned against the Solo's crisply creased trouser leg and hugged it with muddy hands. Libby started to giggle.

Finally Solo followed his boss up to the limousine. While one of the women showed Grampa some papers, his employee handed his briefcase over to the driver and began to roll up his trouser legs. He didn't seem to notice the little boy stalking him. When Robin landed on his back the dark-haired man wobbled about, flailing, until Ginny was shrieking with laughter, and then he scooped her up too. Ginny leaned against his shoulder.

"He made the squirts laugh though," Midge said. "Your cousins have been kind of spooky up to now."

"Midge, can you keep a secret?" Libby asked.

"Posilutely."

"No, can you really, really, cross your heart, never tell even if they stick needles in you, keep a secret? I think there's something scary going on in my family, but I can't tell you unless you promise not to tell anyone!"

"Promise!"

Midge's eyes were wide behind her glasses. Libby looked around to make sure no-one could hear them, especially her Mum and her aunts.

"I'm not sure, cuz everybody starts whispering when they see me, but I think . . . I'm almost certain . . . Aunt Jane is gonna get divorced."

"No!"

Libby nodded.

"It's going to be so humiliating. What if people think I'm some kind of Women's Libber or something? What am I going to do?"

"Oh, gosh!"

Libby folded back onto the blanket again. She rolled over on her front and stared at the silver river. Noodle-brain was digging at the water's edge. Her father was casting and re-casting a line down by the river's bend, trying to place a fly in exactly the right spot.

On the sandy beach a dark-haired woman and a sandy-haired man lay sunbathing. The woman had a very tiny bikini. The two of them had to wish Libby's family hadn't turned up.

"Look at the couple making out. Grampa's so dumb. He makes us drive all the way out here to get together, and he still can't find any place just to ourselves."

"Libby, you know, um, we'll still be friends. Even if people are talking about you."

"I don't want them to talk about me! Why do things have to change?"

She felt a few tears squeeze out at the horribleness of it all, and kept her head down so Midge wouldn't see.

oooooooo

He was casting very badly. Thomas Duclos watched his fly skitter away from the swirl of water he'd tried to land it in, and began reeling in his line for another cast. Perhaps another rod . . . ? He'd brought three, since he wasn't sure what kind of water his father-in-law had picked out.

A stronger man would have insisted that his family would picnic by themselves this year. Tom hadn't argued. His father-in-law intimidated him. He could still remember going to ask him for Elizabeth's hand. He'd been absolutely sure that if the old man shook his head, Elizabeth would walk away without a backward look.

He didn't know why Waverly gave that consent. Thomas was a hard worker. He had no doubt of his ability to provide for his family, and no doubt of Elizabeth's happiness. All the same, he knew he didn't meet Waverly's standards. After sixteen years, when his father-in-law called him "son" it was policy, and not affection.

Ned was still safely away from the deep water, building a personal Venice on the sloping bank. He'd made a road and bridges out of river stones, and zoomed toy cars along them. Was it too early to start checking out good engineering schools? MIT? California had a couple places, but it was so far away.

With a car in each hand, Ned staged a mid-air smash. The yellow car dropped into one of his canals.

"You're a submarine," he told it, and began snaking it along the waterways.

On the warm sand nearby, the family dog yawned and rolled onto her back. Trixie had been less energetic than usual, the last few days. He'd have to ask Elizabeth to schedule a veterinary appointment.

Liberty was still talking with her friend from school. She'd been sulky all morning. It couldn't be fun for a child, cleaning the graves of people she didn't know, dead in a war that happened before she was born. Maybe she'd cheer up after they opened the picnic basket. From his limited experience, food made a big difference in keeping a teenager happy.

The young man from Waverly's office came down to stand near Ned. He had Jane's kids with him. Robin started a canal system of his own alongside Ned's. The little girl clung to the man, with her thumb in her mouth. They both looked more cheerful than usual.

Thomas turned, and found Elizabeth watching him, smiling. He waved. She waved back, before she bent to listen to her sister Jane's complaints again.

That smile was always lucky for him, one way or another. The next cast went exactly where he wanted it.

Jane's family was worried about her. The vivacious girl who danced at his wedding had turned into an insecure, frightened woman. She and the kids had turned up on Mother Waverly's doorstep after midnight, three weeks ago. All three were hollow-eyed with exhaustion. Jane wouldn't sleep until Gammer got out a remarkably well-kept hunting rifle and promised that she or Elizabeth would stay on guard until morning.

Alexander (still at work, at one in the morning) had said he'd deal with the husband. There hadn't been a sign of Olivares yet. Thomas wouldn't be entirely surprised to find out that a New Jersey landfill had about 190 pounds more fill than expected. Thomas himself took care of getting sleepers for the kids, and toothbrushes, and fruit and Malt-O-Meal for their breakfast.

He felt the thrill of contact along his line, set the hook, and began to play his catch. It was big, whatever it was, and stubborn. It didn't fight like trout. He couldn't get a sense of familiarity at all.

Ruth wasn't helping, turning up with that Negro as her date. It was disrespectful, using Memorial Day to make a political statement. Ruth shouldn't have brought a date to a family picnic at all, not unless she was serious about him.

Good Lord! She wasn't, was she?

This was no time to get distracted. He brought up his rod to keep the line taut, seeing the shadow of something huge under the water. A slick black curve broke the surface.

Catfish, he thought for a moment, and then he recognized the surface as black rubber.

Another damn innertube. Lady Bird Johnson's campaign to beautify America hadn't done much that he could see! Thomas tried to drag it in toward the shallows, hoping to retrieve his fly.

The frogman stood up. His eyes were invisible behind his glass mask. He held some kind of bulky gun, and he pointed it at Thomas. A harpoon. He was pulling the trigger. Thomas couldn't move.

A patch of red appeared on the frogman's arm. He stepped backward and sat down in the water. A loud crack echoed over the water.

"Move. Come on, move!"

Two more frogmen stood up behind the first one. A girl in a bikini pulled at his arm. She had some kind of shiny rifle. There were more cracking noises. Shots. The first man had been shot, to keep him from shooting Thomas.

"Ned!"

Frogmen trampled like Japanese movie monsters across the city the boys made. He couldn't see Ned.

"He's safe, Mr. Duclos. Napoleon has him. Come on!"

Who? Napoleon? Thomas actually looked for a blue uniform and cocked hat, but he saw the young man from Alexander's office zig-zagging up the river bank. Robin and Ginny shrieked in his arms, and he pushed Ned ahead of him. Thomas let himself be pulled to cover.

Was this what Alexander saw in him, that he would freeze in danger? That he would see his son in danger and not be able to help?

"What's happening? I don't understand."

"Thrush," the girl said. "Worse than ants for ruining a picnic!"

oooooooo

"I know field agents would usually be assigned as couriers, but the agents are needed at HQ right now. Parton thought it would be a good idea to send some ancilliary personnel out of the way."

The back of the limousine seemed the best place for Waverly to examine the report, away from the breeze. He shook his head at the pages spread across the seat.

"THRUSH plans are frequently unreasonable, but this is irrational. They gain nothing from attacking the Milan office."

"Eight dead," Heather said.

Six of the dead had been staff, like her. They'd been armed, as she was, but not trained to deal with a military incursion.

"Yes, with nearly twenty dead on their side. The attack was repulsed without appreciable losses to Sections One, Two or Three, or discoverable looting of information or material. Every other UNCLE office is on full alert by now. Scheduled anti-satrap operations may proceed with, ah, an excess of rigor, but THRUSH is unlikely to consider this a desirable outcome. It all seems dreadfully whimsical."

In the driver's seat Kuryakin sniffed. His face was impassive, as he snapped a load of sleep darts out of his Special and replaced them with bullets. The trainee Jessamine Scott, who'd probably never before been this close to the upper echelons of UNCLE New York, looked from face to face in bewilderment.

"They sound crazy to me," Tina muttered.

"Do they gain anything in Europe by angering UNCLE?" Heather asked.

Kuryakin unfolded his communicator and tried to activate it. He changed a few settings, and tried again.

"Perhaps not in Europe . . . . The frequencies are jammed. Wait here, sir."

When Heather saw him circling the convertible she'd checked out from the UNCLE pool, she began to understand what the field agent suspected.

"No. Oh, no, sir. The car was checked before we left UNCLE."

She couldn't find any faith in her own words though, even before she watched Kuryakin lie in the road and pull himself under the front bumper. He walked back to the limousine with his Special in his left hand, and a small disc in his right.

"Tracer, sir. Affixed with a quick-setting adhesive."

"The lady with the stroller!" Tina blurted. "Remember, I said I'd never seen a baby that ugly? She stopped in the crosswalk and put the sunshade down, right in front of us."

"A well-trained child, or very small adult," Kuryakin agreed.

"What would be your estimate of their schedule?" Waverly asked.

"No more than ten minutes."

"It will be difficult to evacuate in that time. Try to delay their progress, Mr. Kuryakin."

"I can block the road, sir."

"Do so. We have little chance of exit in that direction."

Tina and Jess looked bewildered, but Heather didn't have the time to explain. She swallowed.

"This is my fault, sir. I'm so sorry."

She knew she'd gone pale. She must have looked almost as shattered as she felt, because Waverly patted her shoulder.

"Please don't concern yourself, Miss McNabb. It was a remarkably subtle plan, from an enemy I generally consider painfully unsubtle."

Kuryakin slid into the driver's seat of the station wagon, bent down briefly, and then drove away downhill. Mr. Waverly shook his head.

"Elizabeth will be unhappy with me. I believe she and her husband are fond of that car."

He stepped out of the limousine.

"This vehicle, on the other hand, has the advantage of being resistant to gunfire. Please wait here while I retrieve my family."

As he turned away a shot rang out, followed by a series of them. Waverly and the three secretaries watched THRUSH assassins rising out of the river, no more than yards away from his wife, his children, and the grandchildren.

oooooooo

He'd marked the spot as they drove up, a place where the narrow road was narrowed even further as it cut between high banks. Just below it was a sharp turn, difficult for the limousine to make. Napoleon had fallen against the side of the car, and told Illya he was a poor excuse for a chauffeur.

This wagon had picked up a good speed, moving downhill. Illya wrenched the wheel and touched the brakes, and let the car's momentum send it sliding sideways into the cut. It ended where he had planned, with the nose against one bank and the rear against the other. He did not think THRUSH would be able to move it easily, but he let the air out of two tires to be certain.

He reached a vantage on the left bank as a vehicle roared up the hill. A sports car took the turn too fast, and braked a moment too late. It skidded into the side of the station wagon.

The wagon was wedged a little more tightly into the gap. The front of the sports car crumpled. After several minutes, its occupants forced a door open and squeezed out like clowns from a car in the Moscow Circus. Alone and well hidden, Illya allowed himself an ironic smile. THRUSH had known Napoleon would be guarding Waverly. Predictably, they'd aimed for his weak point.

A blonde, a brunette, a redhead and a raven-haired exotic, uniformed in shorts and halter-tops, dark glasses and scarves, looked about nervously. Surely even Napoleon would have been suspicious, if this carload of strayed tourists turned up by the river? Illya knew they were THRUSH long before the redhead made the error of taking a pistol from her useless-looking straw bag.

They deserved no consideration of their sex. Thrush gave none to UNCLE's people. It was the ghost of his partner at his shoulder -- the weary, almost betrayed expression that Napoleon got when a woman was killed -- that made him switch back to sleep darts before he fired.

The redhead was the last to fall, the gun tipping from her lax hand. Illya felt a twinge of fellow feeling. He'd been there too, taken down without a chance to fight back. Would they wake to UNCLE interrogation, or to THRUSH self-congratulations?

He told himself he was conserving ammunition. Their expanse of skin meant he could be sure each of the darts hit its target. A guess at their body-weights said that they'd be out for a couple hours, well beyond the probable duration of the conflict.

In the moment's silence he heard shots behind him. THRUSH had set up a pincer movement. He looked back, tempted for a moment to go and help. He heard the familiar snap of the Specials, against the harsher bark of THRUSH weapons.

He also heard the growl of a second wave of the attack. It was motorcycles this time, and heavy engines behind them. He could take down the riders, but the vehicles would be armored. Now, it didn't matter. THRUSH would have to leave them at the blockade, leave the road.

Waverly had given him an assignment. He had to stay here. A knife in the woods, was work Illya knew well.

oooooooo

On the drive up Illya mentioned the glaciers covered New York once, and the boulders and gravel they left behind. Napoleon felt very grateful to glaciers. He'd gotten the kids sheltered behind a tumble of half-buried boulders. Thrush fire chipped the lichen from the downhill side, but Napoleon's answering shots discouraged the frogmen's advance.

For a while. He was down to half a clip of bullets. He had a full clip of sleep darts, but those were useless against the half inch-thick rubber suits. The Thrushie in charge was sending out individual forays now, to draw Napoleon's fire.

The dozing red setter had yelped and scrambled for cover at the first shots. Napoleon felt a certain sympathy.

Once he was disarmed, and dead or crippled, THRUSH would have the children. Once they had the children, they'd have Waverly. Could UNCLE survive that?

Waverly had run down to his wife and daughters. They lay flat by the checked tablecloth and the picnic basket, the tub of ice and bottled sodas, the pie basket and the cake carrier. The youngest girl's boyfriend had moved in front of Waverly. The non-combatants weren't targets yet, not unless Waverly seemed likely to escape.

April and Mark had pulled the son-in-law to shelter, if not safety. Mark's fire discouraged any approach to the Waverlys. Napoleon had lost track of April, which probably meant she was circling around to support him. He appreciated the thought, but he doubted a bikini offered more storage of spare clips than his own suit had.

Heather, Tina and the new girl had ducked behind the limousine. They'd be safe, unless or until combat moved up in that direction. They weren't trained as field agents. He doubted they could intervene.

Ginny shrieked, Robin sobbed, and the older boy stared behind coke-bottle glasses. He was probably in shock. This was shaping up to be a lovely family holiday.

"Shh, honey. Sweetheart. Don't cry. I'll get you back to your mother, in just a little while."

The little girl stopped in the middle of a screech and stared at him. After a brief pause she started to hiccup.

"Who are you?" the older boy asked.

Napoleon peered over the top of his boulder. This was a good time to emulate his partner's marksmanship. He shot once, and the THRUSH frogman dropped. The team commander started shouting. He'd need a few minutes to chivvy another stalking goat forward.

"Napoleon Solo. I'm a friend of your grandfather."

He held the Special left-handed a moment, so that he could shake hands. The boy just stared. His messy black hair hung down almost to his eyes. Napoleon brushed the hair back from his own forehead and switched the Special to his dominant hand again as he looked over the barricade.

"You work for Grampa."

"That too."

"Why are those men trying to shoot us?"

"That's THRUSH. The bad guys. They aren't trying to shoot you kids, though."

Just me, Napoleon thought. A round of covering fire spanged off the boulder. Thrush was starting another attack. The boy looked dubious. It gave him a remarkable likeness to Waverly, though he didn't have the bushy eyebrows yet.

"They want you alive, so your grandfather will give up."

A fern twitched, by a fallen log farther up the bank. April was in position. If he ran he'd draw the Thrushies' fire. They'd be distracted from the children. April wasn't his partner, but he trusted her to seize the chance and get the kids to safety.

Getting himself to safety would be a challenge, but he was a lucky man.

"Get ready to move. A gorgeous young woman is going to come rescue you."

"She's not gorgeous!" the older boy said. "She's my sister!"

Napoleon looked again. A teenager peered over the top of the log, and gestured incomprehensibly. Napoleon ran a hand down over his mouth and chin. Now what?

A white mountain fell out of the sky above them. The setter reappeared, running in circles and barking. With a whine it rose into the air, pawing at emptiness.

And Napoleon rose, and the children, and the agents, all of them sucked into the monolith.

_From the THRUSH point of view, the campaign should have been successful. UNCLE was paralyzed by the loss of Waverly. THRUSH had a real chance to eradicate its chief opponents, and dominate the world as planned. However the mass disappearance caused the Council to suspect Waverly was still alive. He'd escaped and was planning a particularly effective counter-strike, or the local satrap leader was pumping him for information to support his own bid for power, or another member of the Central Council had him . . . ._

_Angelique blamed the loss of Napoleon Solo on one of her current lovers. She wasn't sure which one, so she had them all killed. Two were members of the Council. Accusations and counter-accusations led to internecine attacks. THRUSH decimated itself. Several agents (including Angelique) decided that surrender to UNCLE was safer than continuing in THRUSH._

_They bought their way out of execution with information. UNCLE had time to re-group, exact intelligence, and an even stronger desire than usual to see THRUSH go down. Satrap by satrap, THRUSH vanished._

_A few fragments of the organization survived. An assassination squad re-named itself HIT. A cabal of information brokers called themselves Salamander Four. One group of researchers, horrified by details they'd never understood before, set up a foundation to try to mend the harm THRUSH had done. They named it after the phoenix, the bird purified and reborn in fire._

_UNCLE had been a single man's vision. The loss of Waverly, and of Waverly's heirs and confidants, took the heart from it. The group limped on for a few years, seeing its influence wane and funding vanish, but eventually the secret headquarters were locked and abandoned._


	2. Waking Up Blind

Colony 4: River, Chapter 2, by DarkBeta

_[Morning of the First Day]_

He was hot, steeping, steaming, panting for breath. Caisse reached for the tightness at his throat and found a zipper pull. Wetsuit. He was baking in the thick rubber. He jerked it down. The breeze on his sweat-soaked THRUSH uniform felt like welcome ice.

He had to sit up to shrug out of the top half of the suit. He saw woodland, and heard the river flowing at his back, but this was not the site he'd pored over in planning his attack. He had been moved, he and his men, and a handful of UNCLE agents and civilians as well.

They were not dead, the ones he could see. They had breath, and color, and the shifts of living sleep.

UNCLE had a weapon, and had been willing to sacrifice even their own agents to its use. Or THRUSH did, and failed to inform the troops of it. It was a kind of gas, or perhaps a ray, that stunned personnel over a wide area.

Caisse didn't know or need to know the method, He was awake and able, and the others slept. Napoleon Solo slept, sprawled on the grassy bank and looking less perfectly garbed than usual.

The man was shorter than Caisse expected, too, and not so heavily built. Waverly's right-hand man was worth much as an example, more as a source of information. Others had thought that, and held Solo in chains and cells. He had slipped the chains and left the cells. His captors died or were disgraced (which was much the same thing, in THRUSH).

He'd sacrifice the fame and risk of taking Solo alive. He'd settle for being the agent who stopped him, once and for all. That was all the reputation he needed.

He knelt astride Solo's chest, so the man would be pinned if he woke, and got a handhold of the far-too-perfect hair. The edge of his darkened knife pressed just hard enough that a rim of crimson welled along it like enamel. Solo's eyes opened.

Caisse should have cut then, both arteries and the throat, so Solo died wordless and fountaining. Blood would wash from the wetsuit well enough. He held off for curiousity. He wanted to see Solo's face, see the agent's realization that he was going to die.

He saw the eyes widen for an instant. Solo looked back at Caisse. He seemed . . . confident. Did he not understand? Was madness the secret of the UNCLE agent's success, the refusal to notice defeat, as it had been for the occasional THRUSH satrap? And why was Caisse still pausing?

Solo's eyes cut past him, and then back to his face. The man was amused now. Suddenly Caisse knew there was a presence at his back. Kuryakin, of course. No wonder Solo had been so confident.

Caisse flung himself sideways, rolling, trying to gain enough ground that he could stand and put up a fight. He found his feet, crouching to meet the attack of a short deadly opponent.

He saw no-one.

He swung back toward Solo. The UNCLE agent was also on his feet. Caisse saw the gun, felt a tap at his chest, looked down at the flights of a sleep-dart pinning his uniform to his flesh.

He threw the knife aside, so he wouldn't land on it when he fell.

ooooooo

Solo slid the Special back into its holster. He took a comb out of his pocket and combed his hair smooth again, as he surveyed the slope around him and the scattered bodies. Everyone was asleep. At least, the ones close to him were definitely alive. He would assume they all were.

Including the partner he hadn't spotted yet.

He rolled down his pants legs, though the crease was irretrievable. While he was leaning over, he patted down the Thrush he'd darted. Sleeping Beauty would be out for a few hours. The THRUSH weapon was almost empty, but Solo pocketed it and the spare clips. He found a couple pairs of handcuffs too. THRUSH had planned on taking prisoners. The only use of the women and children would have been leverage against Waverly.

Some of the others looked restlessly close to waking up. The frogmen were easy to spot among the scattered saplings of the river bank. Solo had no intention of being distracted by another attack. The handcuffs they all carried were useful. He secured their hands behind them and then dragged them together and cuffed the left wrist of each to the right wrist of the next.

Two of the frogmen lay half in the river. Blood had dyed a pool of still water under one of them. He was pale, and far more deeply unconscious than the rest. Napoleon strapped on a quick field dressing before dragging him up the slope, and only cuffed the uninjured arm. The man needed more attention. He'd have to wait.

He leaned back, stretching away the strains of unaccustomed labor. A dim uneasiness finally became conscious. The stones where he'd sheltered with the children were gone. Waverly lay on the grass, with most of his family, and the picnic spread on its checked cloth. Farther upslope Napoleon could see the gleam of the Rolls, and flashes of color from the other cars. He should have been able to see the edge of the road though, and the stones of the WPA embankment.

They'd been moved. THRUSH would have moved them to a dungeon, and UNCLE to better shelter and medical care. A third party was involved. They were benign enough to leave both sides alive, but beyond that Napoleon knew nothing.

Slate had woken up, and Waverly's son-in-law, and the man who'd accompanied Ruth. Gilbert saw Napoleon watching, and took a yellow card from his pocket.

"Omaha office." he admitted, grinning.

"Good work. Was Miss Waverly in on your cover?"

"Ah, no, sir."

Napoleon winced.

"I suggest you stay out of range when she wakes up."

Duclos had his son in his arms.

"Thank you. I don't under stand what happened, but thank you. Where are we?"

"A good question. Especially since my partner isn't here, which means we probably haven't found all the Thrushmen either. Slate, you and Gilbert secure the area. The two of you . . . ."

"Hey, I'm not chopped liver. I'm a field agent too!"

April Dancer scrambled to her feet alongside her taller partner. Napoleon eyed a bikini which didn't remind him of liver at all. Atomic blasts, possibly.

"Quite right. Dancer and Slate are senior agents here, after myself. Gilbert, you're under their orders. Keep Waverly safe, protect the civilians, secure the prisoners."

Waverly was looking in his direction. Napoleon turned toward the forest.

"Um, I think the old man is trying to get your attention," Gilbert ventured.

"Sorry, I don't recognize that description. I'll be back shortly."

oooooooo

Long before he was conscious enough for memory, he knew he was in the woods, in the open, helpless. He forced his eyes open, and eeled beneath a slope of bracken fern. Some time after that the birdsong paused. He heard heavy boots on the mast.

He brought a knife up before him, with care that it didn't glint and betray him. It was stained. Had he not even troubled to clean the blade?

"Chaba? Harm? Anyone there?" the stranger called lowly.

A stonechat called, and then other birds. One was a thrush. The stranger wore a uniform. He was THRUSH too. He carried a rifle, and had a holstered handgun.

"Where is this? Where are you? Did UNCLE kill everybody?"

This time his voice was a sigh. Illya wouldn't have heard, if he hadn't been near enough to cut the man's hamstrings.

A rifle's report silenced the birds a second time. It shot again. The enemy agent cursed and started along the hillside.

Illya lay still. This wasn't upstate New York. He recognized many species. A clutch of mushrooms made him realize how hungry he was. Violets skulked by a leaning trunk. A North American fir clawed for the sunlight where a forest giant had fallen.

Some of the species were American, some European, some Asian. He could not imagine where they would co-exist, unless in a botanical garden, but he saw no trace of artifice. The place was strange, and deeply wrong.

Trees and flowers and birds that didn't belong together, and the gnawing feeling of something askew, what would his partner make of that?

"Superstitious Russian."

No, it was unwise to be the bearer of unexpected facts. He would wait to report until he was asked. He needed more data to form a hypothesis. THRUSH looked bewildered, but he didn't plan to rely on that appearance.

Illya scrubbed his knife with a handful of leaves and sheathed it. He scrubbed his hands too. Then he went quietly on the track of his prey.


	3. Intimations

Colony 4: River, Chapter 3, by DarkBeta

It was Alexander's fault.

Emma woke up beside him. She had a moment of shocked delight at so rare an occurrence. Then she sat up and saw the ruined picnic.

Jane had broken down again, with Virginia howling in her lap and Robin scowling at her shoulder, trying hard to be a little man. In a moment he was going to kick someone; probably the young man in an odd hat nearby. Wellies was sprawled on his back, snoring.

Bess had her arms around Liberty and Edward, and Thomas was holding them in a rather public display of affection. Well, he was French. They didn't look as if they'd move apart any time soon. Libby's little friend was nearby. She looked pale.

Robin kicked the young man, who backed away rasing his hands.

"Here, now. No need for that. I'm not a bad guy," he said.

His accent made her nostalgic for London. A girl in a white bikini picked Robin up and swatted him firmly. Behind her back one of the five men in black rubber suits tried to stand. Since he was handcuffed to the rest of them, he didn't get far. The bikini girl turned back and pointed a large gun at him. He sat down.

One of the prisoners was slumped and bleeding. Where had she left the oversized first-aid kit with the UNCLE logo? It could supply disinfectant and bandages, along with the morphine and veridicals.

"Em!"

Alexander lurched to his feet. Wellington jerked awake and started barking.

"We're safe, for now. Your people have five prisoners under control."

He focused on her cursory sit-rep and looked around once. That quickly, he was back in command. Hadn't she, like the rest of his agents, worshipped him for that?

Still. One day. Was it so much to ask, that they should have one day as a family without his work interfering?

It was. A phalanx of Alexander's girls (did he think she didn't notice that good looks seemed a requisite of employment?) bore remorselessly downhill toward them.

"Wellies, be quiet," Emma ordered.

"His name is Wellington," Alexander muttered, but quietly enough that she could ignore it.

Wellies wobbled upright and tried to stick his face into the picnic basket.

"You lied to me, you bastard!" Ruth shrieked like a harridan at her date.

"Language, dear!" Emma said, and stood up to put things under control.

oooooooo

It was Mama and Papa's fault. They were so happy that she was fitting in, that she was friends with a popular girl like Libby. They had been happy when she told them Libby invited her to a picnic. Why couldn't they have ordered her to stay home instead?

When people shot at you, it was scary. Midge had ducked down and frozen, while Libby tried to crawl over to her brother. Now that the danger was over, probably, of course Mr. and Mrs. Duclos wanted to make sure their kids were safe.

Only, here she was standing by herself. She felt kind of weird in her stomach, and she wasn't entirely sure she could stand up much longer, but Libby was the only person Midge really knew here . . . .

"You're Libby's friend . . . Midge? Is that short for Margaret?"

Snapping out orders as she loaded everyone into the cars for the picnic, Libby's grandmother had been scary. Midge had been introduced to her, sort of. 'Hi, Gammer, this is Midge-kins, dibs on the back seat!' But Libby dragged her away right after.

"Br . . . Bridget. M-ma'am. I'm sorry. I'm . . . I'm going to . . . ."

She took a deep breath, and the air didn't want to come in. She let it out, and it made a weird sound. And then she was crying.

"Shhh, shhh. It's all right. You're safe. We'll take care of you."

She smelled like old-lady perfume. She was softer than Mama. And she gave Midge a handkerchief.

oooooooo

This was all his partner's fault.

He should know better than to go missing in a forest. What did Napoleon know about the wilderness? Urban wilds, yes; he'd endeavour to track down his partner in the worst parts of any city of Europe or the Americas. And though language might be a hindrance, Asia too.

One tree looked like another though. As soon as he was far enough from the river bank that he couldn't hear the water, Napoleon was lost. Leaves skidded under his smooth soles as he tried to climb, so he spent half the time clutching stray branches or sliding downhill.

"Illya? Come out, come out, wherever you are," he called. "Ollee, ollee, all is in free! How do Russians play hide and seek anyhow?"

A bullet cracked past him. By the sound he knew it hadn't come from a Special. Napoleon dropped and rolled – on purpose, for a change – behind the barricade of a fallen log. He drew his own weapon.

"Lethally," a familiar voice stated.

"That was your shot?" Napoleon asked. "Because a simple, 'tag, you're it' would have done."

"I apologize for the waste of ammunition."

Napoleon stood up, hesitating only momentarily as Illya added, "Past or future."

His partner had found an aerie, where a boulder and a couple of fallen trees made a defensible position with as good a field of fire as one could manage in the middle of a whole lot of trees. He sat beside a heap of weapons with his own Special holstered, holding a rifle he certainly hadn't had at the river bank.

"I believe the sights are off. I meant to miss you by a smaller margin."

"What if the deviation had been in the other direction?"

Illya shrugged. Several yards to his left huddled the former owners of his trove. Like Napoleon, Illya had secured the prisoners with their own cuffs. He had gagged them as well.

Four of them were women, dressed in holiday outfits. Napoleon sent a charming smile toward a brunette in shorts and a cropped top. She glared at him. The remaining three prisoners, in considerably worse condition, wore THRUSH fatigues.

"I'm disappointed in you, Illya. You've been keeping all this company to yourself."

"Since you were the obvious target, I'm sorry to have taken your place."

"Not more than I am. Four of them. My, my."

"My, my. What of your own visitors?"

"We only had five. Dressed for the seashore, but not nearly this easy on the eyes." He twinkled at the brunette again. "They too decided to sit down for an exchange of views. Perhaps we should combine our parties?"

"Up," Illya said.

He gestured with his free hand. The rifle remained steady. The prisoners arranged themselves in a sullen file. Illya looked disparagingly at the women's sandals, but he pulled the shoelaces from the men's boots.

"Now we go back to the others."

"That may be a problem. I got a little turned around on the way . . . ."

Illya sighed.

"You left a trail a cow could follow. Come on."

Yes, this was definitely all Illya's fault.


	4. Darkness Falls

**Colony 4: River, Chapter 4****, by DarkBeta**

**(Night of the first day)**

Napoleon had left a scatter of castaways on the river bank, half of them still asleep. He returned to something like a military camp. Waverly, relegated with a couple of toddlers to the back seat of the Rolls, was not its commander.

A cookfire crackled in a ring of stones surrounded by cleared ground, and something simmered in . . . was that a hubcap? The older children deposited armloads of firewood nearby. Agent Gilbert chopped saplings while Waverly's youngest daughter lashed them together, and both of them were ostentatiously silent. Napoleon winced in sympathy.

A couple of the secretaries tied evergreen branches to the frame of what looked like a caveman's Quonset. Slate rolled a good sized stone alongside the others around the fire, stretched and rubbed his back, and then went along the slope for another.

Upstream, Waverly's son-in-law hauled in a writhing fish, tossed it on the bank, and cast his line again. He had an expression of ecstatic disbelief. On the bank, looking resolute rather than ecstatic, his wife filleted the catch.

"Ah. Good. There will be a meal," Illya noted.

"I'm not sure keeping our stomachs filled is Waverly's priority right now."

"It should be."

They led the line of THRUSH prisoners up to the Rolls.

"Reporting in, sir."

The two children waved happily through the open window. Waverly scowled.

"Seven more mouths to feed. No, Robin, you may not touch the gun. Leave them with the others. Sit still, Virginia. Napoleon, I've got a job for you. A metaphorical continuation of your task as an agent, in fact."

"Sir?"

With a sadistic flourish, Waverly passed him an entrenching tool. Napoleon stared. This was his punishment for running after Illya. He couldn't see it, but he knew that behind his back his partner was grinning.

"Yes, sir."

"Nappy! Come back! Want Nappy!!!" the girl wailed as they turned away.

She had an amazing volume, resonating in the enclosed car. Waverly was far too observant, so Napoleon tried not to let his shoulders shake as he laughed. He stuck the little shovel under his arm like a swagger-stick.

"The Solo charm strikes again. Vengeance is mine!"

"I did suspect you have delusions of grandeur."

"You're both delusional, if you think your tinpot caterpillar-browed relict can stop THRUSH!" ranted one of the uniformed prisoners.

"We'll take that under advisement," Illya said. "Now, move."

"That's the top guy in UNCLE? He didn't look like much," another prisoner went on.

"Oh, he isn't," Napoleon agreed. "Dumb as a post, just like all the agents. Morale is in the basement, we can only afford to buy ammo every third Wednesday, and all our best people have decided the Boy Scouts are a better deal."

"See, I told you guys . . . !"

". . . and we're still beating you. Strange, isn't it?"

Downstream the gravel bank was wider. The earlier prisoners squatted an equal distance away from the water's edge and the brushwood. The newcomers went the rest of the way in silence.

The frogmen had been stripped of their wetsuits, all but one, and resecured. They looked underdressed and chilly. April perched on a nearby boulder, still in her bikini, and looked entirely decorative. She gave them a cheerful smile.

"Welcome back, strangers. Thought you'd get out of the hard work, did you?"

"You look like you're slaving away. Care to exchange assignments?"

Napoleon brandished the entrenching tool.

"I'm working on my tan . . . . " At the sight of the newcomers, one of the prisoners started to get up. "No, don't move. Or do I have to shoot someone else?"

She looked at the file of newcomers.

"More birds for the pot? Add them to the row, and you can put their molls over there."

The brunette stiffened.

"Molls? We are operatives!"

"Really? Interesting uniforms."

April waved her free hand, and somehow contrasted bright-colored shorts and minimal tops with the wetsuits and camouflage of the other Thrushies. The blonde nodded at Napoleon.

"Like our compatriots, we wear what is effective for the mission. And yourself?"

April stretched. For a moment Napoleon forgot to watch the prisoners. One of the younger Thrushmen, not the one still in a wetsuit, blushed.

"Maybe. Well, let's get you all settled. Illya, there's something you need to see."

ooooooo

Given the chance to delay shoveling, Napoleon was happy to stand in as guard for a while. The wet-suited prisoner had been given some analgesic. Illya could not entirely support that waste, but it meant the youth didn't protest as he and Miss Dancer knelt on either side of him, only blinked at them in sleepy unease.

"It doesn't make sense. I know we were moved, but we can't have been out that long. It's still the same day . . . isn't it?"

Illya did not commit himself.

"This is the same guy I shot. I'm sure of it. But the wound . . . ."

She'd aimed for the center of the body. He approved. Miss Dancer, like Napoleon, had a tendency to go for such challenging targets as hands or weapons. The blood on the outside of the punctured wetsuit was faintly tacky. However the wound revealed when they unzipped it . . . .

Outside a hospital, the victim should have been unlikely to survive. He certainly was not yet out of the forest preserve. However his flesh had begun to knit. New tissue was filling the wound from within. In spite of a wash of river water, he couldn't see or smell infection. So much repair should have taken at least a week. The last time he'd been in the medical wing it had, and Illya believed himself a quick healer.

Once they moved away from the prisoners, he said, "There is no response on the pen communicator."

"We're out of range? But I thought UNCLE had most of the world covered."

"There are unavoidable gaps in the South American interior and Central Africa, and the Arctic, of course. But we are obviously none of those places."

"Jamming?"

"The level of background static is, in fact, relatively low."

"Then where are we?"

"I don't know. However, I doubt we need to expect a THRUSH attack." He cast a sardonic eye on the prisoners, who distinctly outnumbered the agents at this point. "From outside the encampment, anyhow."

She absorbed the corollaries of his statement without outward reaction. Among his fellow agents, Dancer was not one he particularly admired. Reports intimated that like Napoleon she relied entirely too much on good fortune. And on the efforts of her partner, also like Napoleon. However he might have underestimated her.

"Tell Slate I'm going to need some help down here," she said, and turned back to her job.

"And what are you going to do?" Napoleon asked, regarding his shovel with a sigh.

"I believe I will look for mushrooms. They go well with fresh trout."

Napoleon slouched away, radiating discontent. Illya checked the pen communicator again. Still there was no contact.

ooooooo

On the principle, perhaps, of putting all their eggs into one basket and watching the basket, Waverly's family had the largest hut. It was cramped and crowded, but enough better than the other accommodations that Thomas didn't complain. The prisoners were out on the ground under a low, unwalled roof, and Waverly's agents planned to sleep in the cars between shifts on guard.

"Just like a stakeout," the swimsuit model had commented brightly, and Mr. Solo groaned.

Thomas didn't want to think about Solo, though. The bed was prickly and balsam-scented, but after a long day it was still bed. This was almost his favorite time with Elizabeth, whispering back and forth, just the two of them.

"I've never had a day like this. The fish rose to everything; I could have hauled them in with a bare safety pin! And the size of them! The Angler's Club can't have seen trophies like that since the 1870s!"

Of course, he didn't have the trophies. It did seem a waste of a good catch, to just eat it. Still, when they got home he had an amazing story for the guys on the commuter train. They wouldn't believe it, but who believed fish stories anyhow?

"I'm glad you had a good day."

He might have imagined the irony in Elizabeth's voice. Still, she couldn't have enjoyed the day that much, between the furor of getting ready for the family gathering, and its catastrophic interruption.

"I never thought I'd get bored of having a strike at every cast," he admitted, and felt her laugh.

"It's been strange, getting stranded like this. With Father's people."

"Yes. Hooking a hundred-and-fifty pound frogman, now that's a catch!"

She didn't laugh again, and he felt his own mood sour.

"I can't believe I just stood there. I keep thinking, if I'd moved right away, if I'd run for Ned . . . ."

"Ned's safe. You're safe." She hugged him. "It could have been much worse."

"Doesn't look very good. I mean, next to Alexander's dark-haired fair-haired boy."

"Don't be silly. If I'd wanted to marry an agent, I would have. They came past the house sometimes, with papers and some good excuse, but you could always tell which ones were in the field. And maybe I did have a little crush on one or two."

"On Solo?"

"Nineteen years ago? He hasn't been an agent that long. I got smart and figured out that if I married a man like my father, my life would turn out like Mother's. Alone all the time, waiting for a few minutes here and there."

"I guess his work's important."

"I want my husband to think I'm more important. At least once in a while."

"Always."

She responded to his kisses as eagerly as ever. This was no place for anything more, unfortunately. He could only close his eyes, and fall asleep with Elizabeth in his arms.

ooooooo

"The one time Slavic expedience would have been convenient, and they come back with a dozen prisoners. How are we going to garrison them? We haven't been able to communicate on any channel. God only knows what's going on back home."

"You can't do any more about it today, Alexander. You need your sleep."

There was something to be said for the lack of electric light. Alexander followed her into the hut instead of insisting on his right to sit up with a case full of papers. They lay down together -- their bed had one of the few blankets – and stared at the dark, and listened to the strange noises of the forest. Alexander coughed, clearing his throat.

"Well, lass?"

Emma knew it was all the apology she would get, for his work infringing on their private lives and the assault on their family. She'd married a soldier. She'd never questioned the worth of his battle.

"Well enough."

You seized what victories you could in the world. Her husband was beside her, for a change, and her family was around her. If they were a little too near for privacy, there was darkness. She and Alex had both learned young how to be silent.


	5. Reaction

**Colony 4: River 5****, by DarkBeta**

**(River, Morning of the Second Day)**

Breakfast was pie (apple, peach and rhubarb), cake (chocolate and carrot), and reheated fish. Not, fortunately, in that sequence. The picnic supplies were almost gone. Waverly's son-in-law was an enthusiastic angler, but he would find supplying meals for thirty-one difficult. The Americans would complain. Loudly.

Napoleon might not, nor the other agents, but the prospect was disheartening. Illya didn't want to see children hungry. Again.

"Mr. Kuryakin, a word?"

"Yes, sir."

"The continuing lapse of communication implies that UNCLE is unable, for whatever reason, to locate us. In order to contact them, we'll need to reach safer surroundings on our own."

If his suspicions were correct – and a night's sleep hadn't dissipated them – UNCLE lay at an unreachable distance. Illya thought about trying to explain this to the man who, more than anone else, created the organization. He couldn't find the words.

"Yes, sir."

He'd speak to Napoleon. His partner might disbelieve him, of course. If he could be convinced though, he'd know how to convince the others.

"Our previous transportation is now unsuitable, and we can't expect the children to go cross country." Waverly gestured at the four vehicles, each hemmed in by brush and full grown trees. "Please use your naval expertise to check out the waterway as an alternative."

"Excuse me, sir. You want me to build boats?"

It was impossible. Ridiculous. At the same time, he found himself evaluating tools and materials. Certainly there was wood enough. Green wood, unless they collected deadfalls or driftwood. Mrs. Waverly had brought marshmallows, biscuits and chocolate bars to conclude the feast with something called 'summer' cooked over a bonfire, so the party had hatchets at least.

"To design transport for just under twenty passengers, yes. I doubt that's beyond your engineering talents."

The night had been cold. The vegetation here was spring-like, perhaps even early spring. The water level was still high, even if the floods of thaw were done. Were they done?

"No, sir. I'll do what I can."

Rafts would be easy to build, but unmaneuverable. He expected wild currents downstream. Napoleon spent enough of his leave racketing about with boats. Perhaps he had some idea of the construction of a keel. Illya's eye rested on the cars, where Waverly's daughter and her two children played on the ground. The engines were useless in their present state, but nonetheless a source of power.

Absently he noted that Waverly planned to leave behind a third of the castaways.

ooooooo

"Get out. Get away. You have to leave me behind," Donato said.

The rookie said the same thing every time he woke up. He wasn't awake very often. Otto, one of the remaining operatives from the overland attack, took up another complaint.

"We still don't know what they hit us with. Some kind of sleep gas, like the darts? ID never said they'd have anything like that!"

He glared at the four girls from Intelligence and Diversion again. For a while yesterday Minette and Clara had tried to defend their department. Miss Devane didn't bother justifying the debacle, Ran didn't talk much anyhow, and after a while the other two gave up.

"It took the nephews by surprise too. I don't think it's anything they cooked up."

Otto's squadmate Harm seemed like someone who'd argue up was down just for the fun of it. Caisse didn't feel any happier, to share an opinion with him. Csaba should have reined them in hours ago, but he was silent. He'd lost half his squad in yesterday's attack. At least Caisse's team was still alive, even if prisoners.

They had been given some pretense at shelter, plenty of water and a little weak coffee, cold fried fish, and – grudgingly – small sandwiches slapped together from picnic leftovers. Caisse had waited for a second attack. Surely a reserve force had been assigned to so important a target!

He hadn't been told that, of course. What use was a reserve that could be anticipated? Nighttime, he'd thought. After dark the third group would move in, and take down UNCLE, and rescue them.

Dawn ruined his hopes. They were on their own. They had to escape UNCLE's inquisition and brainwashing themselves. (No one came back from UNCLE, not the same. Their deepest beliefs would be combed into bland conformity.)

The tall agent in a funny hat was on guard again. He was far enough away to take down two or three men if they rushed him, but that meant he was too far off to hear much if they kept their voices low.

"I'm top-ranked here, right? I'll take command."

Rod and Maclan nodded, of course, and even Donato managed a weak, "Yes, sir."

Caisse had his eye on Csaba, the only operative likely to challenge him. The survivors of the overland squad looked to him for instruction. Csaba shook his head, a brief, small gesture.

"Yes, sir," Otto and Harm agreed.

Miss Devane shrugged. Agents of Intelligence and Diversion ranked higher than Assault and Coercion, but senior operatives didn't risk themselves in a firefight. Her girls relaxed as they saw her defer challenge. And Clara, his Clara, looked at him trustfully.

"We need to escape and regroup before we try for Waverly again. I'm aborting the mission."

"You can't! If we try to go back without him . . . !"

Like Caisse, Rod had worked for THRUSH long enough to see the consequences of failure. Maclan leaned forward next to him.

"We still outnumber them."

"What? There's dozens of them," Otto hissed.

"Only five agents. The rest are paper pushers, or civilians. Useless."

Cynthia Devane gave Maclan a level look.

"Three of them have sidearms. Maybe more."

"What if Waverly wants us to try for them?" Minette asked. "He'll have an excuse to shoot us down!"

Harm folded his arms.

"They won't shoot if we've got a hostage."

"How about we grab that little blond? Solo won't let us hurt his boyfriend, right?"

The only one who didn't stare at Otto was Donato, who wasn't tracking too well anyhow.

"Did I hear you right? You want to grab Kuryakin?" Miss Devane asked. "Idiot!"

"Boyfriend?" Ran asked, in honest confusion, but Miette and Clara were giggling too hard to explain.

"Maclan has a point," Caisse said. "UNCLE doesn't have men enough to keep an effective guard on us for long. They'll make mistakes. Keep your eyes open, but don't act yet. We'll have a better chance later."

Csaba's group grumbled, but Clara smiled at him. Caisse lay back, making himself as comfortable as he could on the rocky beach. UNCLE had to be as aware of the problem as THRUSH was. The solution was straightforward and logical.

If he'd been in Waverly's place, the prisoners would already be dead.

ooooooo

Jane kept Robin and Ginny next to her, up where the cars were stranded by the brushy edge of the forest. It was as far as she could get from the cluster of THRUSH prisoners.

They'd been given food. Last night Tommy and some of the agents had actually put a roof over their heads. They should have been tied to rocks and dropped in the river!

Horsetail ferns poked between the stones at her feet. They could be such a nuisance. Every spring they punched their way through paths or even macadam roads. She felt like that fern; as if she'd strained all her life against a concrete sky and then suddenly, inexplicably, it cracked and let her through.

Counting in years, it hadn't been her whole life. Not even a quarter of it. Less than five years. For the first year of her marriage Rudi still pretended to love her. He only slipped after Robin was born. He had a hostage then. She was encourage to visit her family as often as she liked . . . but he kept the baby at home. He knew she wouldn't tell anyone.

Maybe it was her whole life. Little Jane, who thought her husband loved her, who believed she was lucky and happy, who trusted her family and friends and believed their lies; that stupid girl was dead. Jane was someone else now.

Of course Daddy never noticed that anything was wrong. He was never around when they were growing up. Why should he be any use later on?

Mummy should have known. Even if Jane always had an excuse. Even if she prayed no-one would ask awkward questions.

"Robin's on the bottle now, so Rudi said I needed a vacation from being woken up."

"Doesn't my eye look horrid? Robin kicked me while I was changing his diaper, the little bruiser!"

"His colic is so bad, we don't think he should travel."

"Rudi's taking care of Robin so you and I can spend time with your new granddaughter."

"Don't make a fuss! I tripped over a jack-in-the-box and fell against the door. That's all."

She prayed even harder after Ginny was born. The thing about two hostages? One of them was expendable.

Now she knew why Rudi had been so distracted, why she finally got a chance to take both children when she ran. This must have been the project he was working on. Could he have planned even her escape, as a distraction for UNCLE's U.S. director as the THRUSH plot got started?

She heard the secretaries talking. Eight people died. Maybe more by now, since Daddy hadn't been able to check in with his office. She should be sorry. She'd grieve for them . . . later.

The shotgun was under a rug in the boot of the Rolls, where Emma put it. A box of cartridges was wedged under the wheel cover. They'd visited Mummy's people for shooting in the Highlands, so Jane knew what to do.

Emma shook her head when she saw Jane holding the gun, but didn't confront her. Jane didn't care. She watched Robin and Ginny, and she watched THRUSH. She'd kept her children safe so far. If she had to she'd shoot the enemy herself.

_(With two weeks instead of one to work on this, you'd think i'd come up with something better! oh, well. let the melodrama roll!)_


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